


Beautiful Surrender

by Lee Marchais (WeasleyWench), RomanyWalker



Category: Original Work
Genre: D/s, M/M, assumed happy ending, original fic - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 13:08:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19110307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeasleyWench/pseuds/Lee%20Marchais, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RomanyWalker/pseuds/RomanyWalker
Summary: Rhys became a dom and didn't even know it, or how natural he was at it. This story is a submission for a writing contest in which elements of D/s needed to be displayed positively and the word limit was 3,000.





	Beautiful Surrender

**Beautiful Surrender**

**Rhys and Endymion**

Beautiful. There’s no other word for him. His pale hair and skin are illuminated from the slant of moonlight through the bedroom curtains; we’re complete opposites. He’s pale and slender while I’m brown and stocky, but I’m the light to his dark. The only thing that’s the same is how much we love and need each other, though even the form our need takes is different. His past has made him what he is, but with me, he’s becoming something else again, like a film moving frame by frame. He changes me as much as I change him, and it’s beautiful. Almost as beautiful as he is. Endymion is mine, his body decorated with _my_ brand and no one can take him away or hurt him ever again. The flower he chose is clear, still raised and a little red. The sheet barely covers him, the outline of his cock with its golden ring making my mouth water.

He’s waiting for me. He always is, one way or another. The lack of clothing is usual for Endymion; it’s one of the ways he says he’s here to do as I want. It’s the ultimate trust, this complete openness to me. Trust that a man with his background doesn’t give lightly. It’s almost overwhelming.

He’s all mine. 

I can do anything I want to him. 

He wants me to: the brand he so nervously asked for is a constant reminder that he trusts me to keep him, and take pleasure in him, and care for him. He asked for it, but it was – and is – a gift to me. 

Watching him sleep, thinking these things, makes my skin hotter, my heart race; blood rushes down and through me, tickling me with star-like heat. I adjust my cock and press my palm against it, relishing the sensation that spreads out in waves. Even asleep he invades my mind, this time with a hypnotic compulsion that drives me to close the door and undress. Trainers first – I toe them off and bend over to remove my socks. My eyes roll back at the pressure the movement causes across my groin, a moan that I can’t swallow trapped in my throat. I toss my t-shirt to the floor; it lands with a whisper. Then – _then_ I unbutton my jeans, hooking my thumbs around the waistband of my boxers and push the rest down. My cock juts out, heavy, my need to be inside Endymion escalating like I haven’t fucked him in weeks, when it’s really only been hours. His body is an addiction; the things he does with his body are an addiction. And he is mine.

I step out of the pile around my ankles and go to the dresser. There is a pair of handcuffs in the top drawer. Something we bought together for games. I pull them out, along with the key. The metal clanks dully in my hand. They’re cool, for now. I cross to the bedside table and set down the key. Endymion breathes in a soft, slow rhythm, his flat chest rising and falling gently. That will change soon enough. Taking hold of his arms, I stretch them back and loop the cuffs around the rail of the headboard. _Click, click, click, click._ His wrists captured, I run my hand down his forearm, where the skin is sensitive and milky-white in the moonlight, then across his sternum, brushing one of his pierced nipples as I withdraw. It hardens; they both do. I _could_ simply tell him to lie still for me, and he would, making himself a perfect alabaster sculpture, tormenting himself to please me. I’d rather he didn’t, though; I’d rather he let go, knowing this is what I want from him, and that he can writhe, arch, and pull against the metal as much as he likes but that I’m still in control and will let him go when _I_ want to let him go. It’s my gift to him when we play this way, this freedom to move and strain and be denied rather than have to deny himself. I run my hand across his chest again, and this time it’s as though we’re held together with strings, his body arching into my touch, driven by desire for more. 

_He’s so beautiful._

I move the sheet aside and admire his long legs, the patch of curls at the base of his cock, his cock that with a few strokes will become hard and red, ready for release. I reach between his legs and feel moisture from earlier today. That’ll be enough to make him moan and gasp like I am the only one in the world who can possibly please him. I am the only one. His head turns to the side, into his bicep. I want to bite that column of skin and leave it red, purple, after I’ve finished with him. I stop myself from leaning down and marking him. He’ll wake up, and I want him to wake him with my cock in him, his body already responding and that hazy desire in his eyes. 

I shift between his legs, run my hand along the tender skin of his inner thigh. A soft sound comes from his slightly parted lips. I can’t wait to hear the noise he’ll make when I’m in him. 

Lifting his legs, I urge his body on top of my thighs. His arms strain against his bonds, stretching the muscle tight. Rings of red and purple will circle his wrists when I’m done. The underside of my cock tingles as I rub it along his perineum and over the whirl of his arse. It’s still moist, and gives at my push. He moans, his body arching just the right way to pull me deeper. It’s a loud, feral sound that reaches into my bones and scrapes out the marrow. I thrust hard, and metal clanks as he tries to reach out but can’t. His arms tighten, and his legs wrap around me by blind instinct. I hold his hips so that even though his body pushes me out, I slide deeper, harder, each time. He pants, his head rolling back and I see his eyes open at last. He stares at me, like his vision is glass, clouded by desire, the same lust rolling through me as I keep my pelvis pressed close to him and enjoy his awakening. The sheets bunch around my knees, cotton rubbing hard against my skin, and the sound of metal grinding and clinking goes through me. He’s rocking onto me, grinding down, moaning my name and pleading for me to touch him. He’d be silent if I told him to, but I love to hear him.

“You can’t come until I tell you to.”

“Rhys!” he begs. “Please. _Please_.”

His words echo. “No, not yet.”

He thrashes, bucks against me. But he won’t come; I haven’t told him he can. He wanted this, to be mine, to surrender to me completely. He has, and even though he fights against the bonds, I know it’s not for escape. He wants to touch me and pull me to him, but he’ll have to wait. He’ll have to wait until I’m coming, after I’ve fucked him so well he’ll remember every time he sits down tomorrow that he gave himself to me, gave me this power to use however I like. 

I release his hips and drop onto my hands on each side of his head and restrained arms. He makes a low noise, his position changing with the pressure on the bed. I roll into him, watching his muscles tighten against his bonds. He strains, crying out. I know he wants me closer. I lean down and kiss him, his mouth salty against mine. His skin hot and I want to touch more of it. I balance on my left hand and stroke his chest, rake my nails over his pierced nipples. It’s the closest I’ve come to touching his cock and I know he wants me to. Sliding in and out of him is easier now. With my nose and cheek, I force his chin up and bite the tender, exposed tendon of his neck. He moans louder, saying my name like I’m _the_ answer to his prayers. 

“Kiss me,” I demand, and his face whips to mine. It’s like he’s trying to tell me wordlessly everything that he needs me to know, everything that I don’t need to be told because I _do_ know: all of the ways I can tame his body for my pleasure, the deep seduction of his voice and eyes, his fierce desire trained into submission, but alive and tearing through to the surface. This eternal loop of our bodies entwined makes me feel like falling apart, just so he can put me back together. The clank of metal tears into my thoughts and I see his bound wrists circle, tug. Another deep moan, and finally, my self-control snaps and I’m nothing but an animal, straining to fill him, feel him shudder and let him go, stop cradling him like something fragile and drop him from heights only God could save him from. 

“Endymion.” I quake, arms aching. He pulls harder; it’s just grinding metal and his raw sounds of pleasure and need. I’ve become empty, wrapped up in pleasure like a wet, sticky blanket of me and him. I can’t breathe any more. My self-control slips away and I’m fucking him so hard the slap of skin stings deliciously. Uncontrollably, I moan, grunt, shiver, waiting for the sweet release I feel building. One gasping breath at a time, the top is closer, so close I can reach out – it’s still not close enough. I’m consumed in the sound of him crying out in pleasure, waiting for me to give the word. One word and he’ll crumble. I lean down to kiss him once more, licking his bottom lip, his smooth chin, then bite at his jaw and neck, down onto his chest. He feels tight and alive. 

My name spills from his lips and the tone reaches down deep and shatters thought, splinters control.

“Come,” I gasp, my body locked in place, pleasure coursing through me like electricity. He arches, the pressure increasing the sensation jolting me forward once, then twice. Endymion has gone limp, still making little noises that make my balls twitch. I withdraw to a sound of displeasure, stickiness leaking between us. I lie over him, iciously. Uncontrollably, I moan, grunt, shiver, waiting for the sweet release I feel building. One gasping breath at a time, the top is closer, so close I can reach out – it’s still not close enough. I’m consumed in the sound of him crying out in pleasure, waiting for me to give the word. One word and he’ll crumble. I lean dowfeeling the wetness of his own orgasm against my cock. I kiss him, just a touch of lips. He’s not all here, not yet, anyway. He’s somewhere I’ve never been, though he’s allowed me to glimpse it, where nothing can reach him, where only I can take him. It won’t be long before he comes round.

I reach for the key on the bedside table and unlock the cuffs, holding each wrist to take the weight off before undoing them. Dark rings stand out on his pale skin where he tugged against the metal. They’re beautiful, like him; they make him more beautiful. He looks at me, a penetrating expression that I can’t understand well enough to explain. It’s adoration with a ferocity that reaches through me and jangles every nerve.

I rub his wrists and he turns into me, facing me, like a cat stretching. Releasing him is harder than it should be, but I let go and he moulds his body to mine. His fingers trail up and down my chest, and he nuzzles my collarbone, planting kisses along its curvature. Sometimes I don’t know how I became this man. I can do things to Endymion, hurt him, mark him, and it feels right. He trusts me and I trust him; he even likes the evidence of our less-than-tender sex. I’m still getting used to being a dom, but he is my sub – no doubt about it. 

“You alright?” I ask. I know he is, but I want him to tell me that he is; need him to tell me that he is. 

He hums, smiling. “Yes, thank you.” He strokes my forearm with just the tips of his fingers. “You are very good to me.”

“I love you.” This should explain it all, why I am good to him, but I know there are doubts that still simmer in his mind about why I chose him, why I keep him. He’s not just property to me like he was to the others. I _do_ love him. 

When he looks at me adoringly like he is now, it scares and thrills me. I’m afraid I’ll let him down again; I can’t let that happen. Once was enough.

“I am yours,” he says.

I smile and kiss him, unable to resist his lips, mouth.

“Next time I could tie up your arms and legs. I can make a wicked knot.”

“If it will please you.”

I bite my lip and look at him. He is my sub. I know this, but hearing it is still new; being his dominant is still new. He’d let me do anything to him, without question or argument as long as it makes me happy. My pleasure gives him pleasure, _is_ his pleasure. It’s intoxicating and a little overwhelming. 

He looks at me, alarmed. “Does my nature displease you? I love you. I only wish to please you.”

“No,” I say, and stroke his cheek. “I’m just surprised at myself is all.” I kiss him. He moans happily. Something in my expression must have startled him. I wrap him up tighter in my arms. I don’t care if we’re sticky; I just want him against me. 

Of all the things in my life, I never thought I would have the good fortune to meet someone like him, who I would do anything for, just as much as he’d do for me. It’s easy to be with him, he makes it effortless, even when I doubt what I’m doing and whether he’ll like it. But he’ll like it, just because I like it. Without Endymion, I never would’ve discovered I’m capable of more than the careful gentleness that has been ingrained in me: I can fuck him, hurt him and mark him and not feel guilty about it, or just make love to him. I can use ropes, chains, handcuffs, whips, anything. He loves it all as long as it’s _me_ doing it.

His surrender to me may be the more obvious, but mine to him is no less real. This mutual exchange means we’re both free. It means that there’s nothing we can’t do together, and there’s no one else I want to do it with. I smile and kiss him again and close my eyes. 

He can have anything he wants of me, too.


End file.
